


It’s Not a Date, Dude

by Venivincere



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Series Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-20
Updated: 2012-11-20
Packaged: 2017-11-19 02:58:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/568295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Venivincere/pseuds/Venivincere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three times Derek and Stiles didn’t go on a date and one time they also didn’t, but they became boyfriends anyway, dude, <i>finally</i>. A.K.A. Derek and Stiles fall in love while in a turkey coma. Kinda.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It’s Not a Date, Dude

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, for being a veritable fandom welcome wagon. May I always be in a fandom you’re a part of. Thanks also to my recipient, , for her lovely prompts and ideas, which inspired me and were easy to work with. I tried to get as many of them in here that I could. Last but not least, thank you to my speedy and awesome beta H! If SPAG errors were bad guys, you'd be my fluffy werewolf boyfriend, gutting them all for me with your amazing grammar claws. Er. <3

 

 

They're sitting in the warehouse in the Wolf Den, as Stiles likes to think of it, an area snuggled up to the wall opposite the rail car where there's a working outlet, consisting of three couches scrounged at various times from the side of the road and arranged in a square with the wall. Weak afternoon light ekes in through the grimy windows high up on the wall, but it can't compete with the lamps Lydia insisted they stick at the corners of the square, on actual _end tables_ , and even though Stiles thinks it's ridiculous ("It's a _lair_ , Lydia, not a living room!"), Derek doesn't put his foot down or wolf out when she gets extension cords and a power strip and plugs them all in. Stiles has to admit it does make the place seem a little warmer and less damp than it usually does. Especially since Isaac drags in a huge old tube TV one night and glory of glories it still _works_. It's parked against the wall screaming "movie night!" at them, so Derek buys them a DVD player and hooks them up. Nobody agrees on the movies they should watch so they end up having movie nights several times a week so everyone can watch what they want.

However they're not here for movie night (or movie _day_ thinks Stiles), they're here for a short pack meeting to plan their attendance at the Fall Harvest Charity Ball at the Beacon Hills Community Center that night. As a pack. As in, a Pack Outing with Capital Letters that doesn't involve Boyd and Erica picking up carry out pizza, Stiles standing like a dork in front of the Red Box at Beacon Hills Bel Air, and Derek lording over the DVD remote when they all slouch back into the Wolf Den with their booty. They'd probably be done talking about it already, but Boyd and Erica are late. Derek's commandeered the remote for college football. USC is beating the crap out of Oregon even though their offense is shit.

"What was that? _That was not a pass!_ " Derek throws a Dorito at the TV.

"So what? They're winning," says Jackson.

Derek glares at him then glares at the TV. "Who wants to watch a shitty win like this? It's like they're not even trying."

Boyd crashes in right then with Erica hot on his heels. Everyone's on their feet; the metal bowl on Derek's lap bouncing all over the concrete floor, Doritos everywhere.

"Glad I didn't insist on a rug," Lydia mutters.

"Something. It's in the woods," says Boyd between heaving breaths, as he and Erica lope up to them. "We followed the scent in from the road and it got stronger by the edge of the ravine. I don't know what it is. It smells… sweet, and kinda rotten." He shoots a glance at Erica and she nods.

"Like flowers and over-ripe fruit or something, but living. Animal-living," says Erica. Her nose wrinkles.

Stiles looks down and sees her claws out, and doesn't think she's even aware of it. His mind races, thinking through everything he's read about or heard about from Derek or Deaton or Chris, and comes up with only one possibility.

"Fairies?!" He shoots a look at Derek, who's nodding.

"Sounds like it," he says.

"But -- isn't it the wrong time of the year for them?" asks Allison. "I thought I read in the bestiary that they're usually only seen in the summer--"

"Those are fairies of the Seelie Court," says Derek, then his face scrunches into an expression that could only mean _Icky, icky get it away from me!_ as he continues, "These are fairies from the Unseelie Court."

Everyone glances at each other, and then looks back at Derek.

"What's the difference?" Allison asks.

"These ones are... _creepy_." Derek shudders. It's a little thing, barely there, but significant: Stiles has never known Derek to, well, get grossed out. He's usually the one grossing everyone else out. "They shed creepy all over the place. If they stick around, everyone they come in regular contact with starts to get.. icky. Everywhere they hang out gets a little dim and scary. Creepy."

"How come you know so much about it?" asks Jackson. "They get you? Is that why you're--"

"Shut up, Jackson," says Lydia.

Derek grins at him with every single one if his long, pointy teeth. "We had an infestation in our tree house when we were kids," said Derek. "At first, we all thought it was just the time of year. Near Halloween, cloudy weather, lots of wind. I mean, we were kids. But when the weather cleared up and even Uncle Peter was too scared to go up the ladder, Mom figured it out and made Dad go up there and spray. They'd been in there long enough to sew all the shadows together and fill the place with mushrooms and spider webs."

"...Ew," says Lydia. Erica snorts.

"They can do that?" asks Allison.

"What do you mean, spray? Not, like, _spray_..." says Stiles, pointing at his dick and raising his leg to the side.

"No!" Derek gives Stiles his best _what the ever-lovin' fuck?_ face and shakes his head. "God, Stiles! It's just a mixture of dried hydrangea flowers steeped in boiling water, and bleach. It kills their magic and they can't stand the smell."

Stiles gives his best "what?!" face even though he could probably cook an egg on his cheeks they're so hot. "He said _spray_ ," he mutters to Scott. "What was I supposed to think?"

Scott whispers out of the side of his mouth, "Let it go, dude." Stiles looks up and Isaac is very much on purpose _not looking at him_ and trying hard not to laugh.

"Is something funny, Isaac?" asks Derek.

Isaac clamps his lips together, forces his face into something other than hysterical delight, and bites out a quick, "Nope!"

Derek glares at him with his best sourwolf stare, and eventually says, "...Good. Stiles and I will go to Deaton and see if he has any dried hydrangea flowers. Scott, take Allison and go buy bleach and a bunch of spray bottles. Jackson and Lydia, go find a cauldron or a big stock pot, or something. Boyd, Isaac, Erica? Go to the house and build a fire pit in the back. _In the open_ , away from the house and trees. Get a fire going. Everyone meet back at the house in an hour."

Stiles heads for his jeep but Derek catches his elbow and swings him around. "We're taking the Camaro."

"Hey, I'm good to drive! Full tank of gas, more cargo space..."

"I'm not good to ride," says Derek, glaring straight ahead and looking as sour as Stiles has ever seen him. "And we're just getting a few flowers, not a carload of potted plants."

"Fine, whatever," says Stiles, tensing for an elbow in his arm at the very least. "Look, is this about the spray comment? Because I didn--"

"Will you just shut up about it?"

"It is! You really are upset about it."

Derek stops in his tracks and rounds on him. " _Spraying_ , Stiles? We don't _spray!_ And don't be gratuitously gross, or I'll think the fairies have got to you."

That brings Stiles right down to earth. Shit! He didn't even _think_ about that. And Derek is worried about it? After all the really dangerous creatures of the night that come knocking on their door far more often than Stiles really thinks is necessary, thank you very much? He shoots a glance at Derek over the roof of the Camaro. "No! No, they haven't got me."

Derek doesn't say anything as they get into his car. 

"Sorry, dude. I didn't realize you'd worry." But he might have known. He _is_ pack, he knows this, somewhere in his head. He feels all smiley inside.

::-----------------------------------------------------------------::

Dr. Deaton's veterinary clinic isn't too far from the Hale house, and Stiles is still feeling kinda warm and happy when they pull up and go inside. They wait in the plastic chairs while Deaton takes care of an older woman's toy poodle that has a cut on his ear. He comes out from behind the counter door wearing a brand new, tiny Cone of Shame and Stiles laughs and says, "Aww! Poor little guy!"

Derek snorts, but when Stiles looks over he's got a rueful little smile going. After that, it only takes about five minutes for Deaton to find the dried Hyacinth flowers.

"About 100 grams ought to do it," he says, and then they're on their way.

Except they never even make it out of the parking lot. Just as they're getting to the car, Derek raises his head and sniffs the air, and then the _Icky, icky get it away from me!_ face is back.

"Hop on," says Derek. He turns his back to Stiles and gestures behind himself.

Stiles rolls his eyes. "You've got to be kidding."

"Hurry! They're in the woods, they're moving away from us, and you're not fast enough to keep up!"

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Fine." He can't believe he's actually going to do this, but he hops up and then hangs on for dear life as Derek speeds through the trees. Stiles ducks behind Derek's shoulder so the branches don't whip him in the eye. 

"OHMYGOD ARE WE THERE YET?" he says, his voice jiggled to pieces by Derek's gait and muffled in the back of Derek's shirt. Derek's like a furnace. A damp and sweaty furnace. And he smells good, like powdered Tide with bleach, and salt, and Old Spice, Original Scent, not that new crap that smells like it rolled in and died on the Axe factory floor.

"Shut up, Stiles."

Stiles moans and squeezes his legs more tightly around Derek's waist. They burst out of the trees behind Beacon Hills Second Run Cineplex (hey, it's only a buck!), and watch as the fairies transform into realistic-looking teenagers, zits and all, and funnel through the doors. No one notices, which tells Stiles three things: their magic works, they know Derek and Stiles are chasing them, and they want Derek and Stiles to follow. How else could Stiles see what no one else in the parking lot seems to be aware of?

"I don't have any cash on me," says Stiles, as Derek drags him into the theater. They see the last two fairies slipping in to theater 2. "Hey, it's The Avengers!"

"Two for Avengers," Derek bites out and the girl in the booth gives them a smile.

"Here you go. Enjoy your date!" she says.

"It's not a date." They say it in unison.

"If you say so," she says, sparing about half a second of eyebrow for them, then looks behind them to her next customers.

"Popcorn and sodas will lend verisimilitude," says Stiles, even if it isn't a date.

Derek stops and stares at him with WTF written all over his face, and geez, did the guy never take an ACT prep course? " _Popcorn_ will throw off our scent," he eventually says, and shakes his head like Stiles is a nut job. Which, hey, _really_ not fai because which one of them was a creature of the night? They get some and drown it in that awful fake butter. "Here." Derek shoves it at Stiles, and rubs his greasy fingers on the back of his neck and his pants. They file into the theater and sit in the back. Stiles sinks down in his seat and tries to look like he's been here the whole time. The movie's only a few minutes in -- Scarlett Johansen's kicking some ass in mighty fine style. 

"They're moving around," says Derek, and Stiles jerks his eyes away from the screen, feeling a bit guilty for losing track.

"They're looking for us," says Stiles.

Derek shimmies down in his seat until he's on a level with Stiles. "I don't want them to spot us."

"How are we supposed to hide our faces?" Stiles whispers, shading his eyes. He slithers down further in his seat until his ass is hanging out in mid air. "Crap, here they come!"

Stiles turns to Derek just in time to have the back of his shirt balled up in Derek's fist and his face land on Derek's lips. He manages to mumble out, "This is not Capture the Flag!" against the rasp of Derek's stubble before Derek's tongue finds his mouth.

_What. The._ Stiles' body shocks so intensely the pleasure is is as sharp as pain.

_My GOD!_

Stiles' blood drains into his dick; with the last bit of his wits he opens his mouth, and then he's kissing Derek back like his life depends on it. Who knows, maybe it does with all these creepy fairies after them, but Stiles' thoughts skitter away again when Derek captures his tongue between his lips and _sucks_ , and ohshit what if that were his dick in there, and then his arms are around Derek's neck tugging him close, closer, until their chests are mashed together and the armrest is compressing his rib cage. Something rumbles in Derek's chest and Derek's hips thrust forward, meeting with Stiles' thigh, and lights flash. That's... that's...

"Shit!" says Stiles, and yanks himself away just as the usher's flashlight passes over them and pauses. It's the ticket girl, and she's smirking at them. She moves on, and Stiles looks around and says, "Hey, where did the fairies go?"

They don't talk to each other on the way back to Hale house. They can't even look each other in the eye, because _holy fuck what was that?!_

Everyone's nose (except Allison's) wrinkles in unison when they round the corner to the back of the house.

"You've got to be kidding!" says Jackson. "You're back late because you were fu--"

"Jackson..." Lydia murmurs.

"Dude, did you and Derek--" 

Allison's eyes light up with understanding and she says, "Scott!" before he can continue.

"So you two finally got together! It's about time," says Peter, rounding a pillar on the only part of the deck left standing after the fire. "Though, honestly, Derek. You chose _now_ to go on a date?" Peter makes his tut-tut face and shakes his head. "I really have to question your judgment if you're making decisions like this." He makes a subtle gesture with his hand below his waist, fleeting, but enough to rile Stiles.

"It _wasn't_ a _date_!" says Stiles, and Derek's once again saying the same thing at the same time. Somehow, Stiles is not surprised.

He's saved from doing something foolish in his desire to wreak havoc on Peter's face when Derek says, "Let's get down to business," all gruff alpha-voice. The wolves swivel around and look at him. "Where's the hot water?"

::-----------------------------------------------------------------::

Stiles calls it Fairy Solvent. Derek glares at him, but doesn't correct him. Everyone's lounging on the couches back at the Wolf Den dressed for the Fall Harvest dance at Beacon Hills Community Center and watching highlights on Sportscenter. Even Peter, though they've relegated him to a metal folding chair that slopes gently forward in the middle.

"I feel like Pierre," he says. Stiles wonders who that dude is.

"I don't care," says Derek and honestly, he could smirk for England. Or California. Definitely Beacon Hills. Stiles doesn't realize he's staring at Derek's mouth until Scott leans over during the commercials and whispers, very urgently, "Stiles, _what is going on with you and Derek?_ "

"OK, listen up," says Derek, lording over the mute button and holding up a spray bottle. He glares at Scott just in time to save Stiles' cheeks from burning to a crisp. "Let's go over this one last time so we're all on the same page." Eyes roll. "All it takes is one or two sprays if you're going directly for a fairy. If you stumble on its living environment, you have to coat every surface. It doesn't have to be a heavy coat; just enough to mist it works fine. It'll dissolve the nesting magic and the smell will make them gag.

Isaac giggles, and then stops when everyone looks at him. "What?"

"We'll travel to the dance in a group, and then break into pairs once we're in the community center gym. Keep your bottles with you at all times."

"Why do we have to go to the dance?" asks Isaac.

"The fairies will be at the dance," says Peter. 

"Why do you think they'll be at the dance, anyway?" Lydia asks. "They were in the woods all afternoon until Derek and Stiles chased them into the theater."

"Their favorite activity is annoying humans. They like it even more than sex."

Stiles recoils. "That's nuts! Also, _gross_." Because, yeah, creepy fairy sex? Eww.

"Spoken like a true virgin," says Jackson, who raises an eyebrow. "Or are you?"

"Fuck off, Jackson!"

"We didn't chase them into the theater," says Derek, "we chased them _to_ the theater. They led us. And they went in of their own accord. It's not like we were hot on their heels," says Derek. 

Jackson snorts.

"Ha, ha Jackson," says Erica, frowning. "Now shut up. I, for one, have had enough of being gross in my life. Never again. I want to hear what Derek has to say. There's no way I'm going to let any of them get me."

Everyone mutters a variant of "yeah," and "me either," and Jackson shuts up.

"If you're caught by yourself with more fairies than you can handle, spray the one who speaks first. If none of them speaks, spray the one who's casting magic. The strong one will borrow magic from the others while he's casting. If you can spray them, it'll not only take all the magic, but permanently weaken the others' magic. Any questions?"

"Yeah," says Scott. "The dance started ten minutes ago. Why do we have to wait another half hour?"

"Lydia said so."

"We need to be fashionably late," says Lydia. "There's a better chance the fairies will be there by then."

"But why do we have to go as a group?" Scott asks Derek. "Can't I just walk in with Allison, and Jackson with Lydia and you with Stiles?"

"He's _not_ my _date_ , dude!"

"Because Lydia said so," said Derek.

"Isaac and Stiles don't have dates, and there's no reason for them to go by themselves--"

"And I really don't want to walk in with Stiles," says Isaac, "especially not after today--"

"SHUT UP!" says Derek. "We're going as a group because Lydia said so, and she's _smart_. If we go together as a group, it'll give them less of an opportunity to get away and come back another time, when we might not be as prepared as we are right now. Now, everyone be quiet."

Stiles rolls his eyes and takes his legs off the only remaining place to sit that isn't in the railcar. He resolutely refuses to believe he'd sprawled across two seats so Derek would have to sit next to him. It was just comfortable, OK?

Derek unmutes Sportscenter and slumps down next to Stiles, clutching the remote like it's the only key to sanity in this world.

"I still think--." Peter stops when he sees Derek's teeth lengthening into fangs and his claws pop out. "So sensitive! Fine. I'll stop needling you. Sit down and soak up the highlights, dear nephew."

Derek and Stiles' thighs are touching hip to knee. Stiles feels like he's touching a hot plate. Derek's still lording over the remote, pretending like he's completely unaware that he's branding Stiles' thigh, and grunting and frowning at the highlights of the USC game they never got to finish that afternoon. He sits there making pissy little growly sounds until Stiles pries the remote out of his hands and switches to re-runs of Iron Chef. It's still 15 minutes before they need to leave when the police scanner Stiles made Derek get starts squawking non-stop.

Derek looks away from the flan dotted with caramelized sugar and stares at the scanner. "Get your coats. We're leaving early."

::-----------------------------------------------------------------::

"I'm hungry," says Isaac, as they're pulling up to the Community Center.

"Yes, thank you, Stiles, for putting on Iron Chef when none of us has had dinner," says Peter. "Always so considerate."

Erica snickers and the knuckles on Derek's hand go white on the steering wheel of the Camaro.

"Yeah, well, my consideration over your sanity any day," says Stiles, feeling very little compunction to be nice.

"Touché!" Peter actually sounds rueful, what a wonder.

Derek huffs and Stiles looks over to find the corner of his mouth raised. Derek parks the car and they unfold out of the doors as fast as they can. Allison, Scott, Boyd, Jackson and Lydia are piling out of Allison's dad's SUV and they're in the door of the Community Center just as the wolves hear sirens in the distance.

There's a cluster of slightly hysterical people in the corridor outside the gymnasium; one of them is sitting on the floor looking dazed and frightened and another just looks, well, _ill_. Barfy. Stiles puts his hand in his jacket pocket and wraps it around the pocket sprayer. The music's still playing as they walk through the gym door, though the dance floor is quickly becoming chaos as the shadows grow ever darker. Stiles thinks he sees mushrooms growing on the disco ball. He hears a sick little tinkling sound and tries to figure out where it's coming from but before he can, Derek's got his elbow in a vice grip and is whispering in his ear, "They're on the dance floor and they aren't aware of us, yet. Let's go." 

Stiles finds himself being dragged into Derek's arms, and then they're whirling around the dance floor with a bunch of people about three times as old as they are. Stiles catches a glimpse over Derek's shoulder of Jackson and Lydia sailing by. Derek spins Stiles around and pulls Stiles' back into his chest, and Stiles suddenly goes weak in the knees. No matter, though; Derek holds him up, sways him in place and chuckles in his ear. Then –OMGNECK-- Derek's burying his nose in it, and _sniffing_. And there are lips. Lips touching his neck. Nibbling. Up his jaw.

Stiles' eyes drop shut and he moans. His head falls back on Derek's shoulder, and that's it. His mind's gone as Derek angles for his mouth, stubble chasing up the side of Stile's cheek. Then he's spinning once again, dizzy, only to find himself captured around his waist by Derek's arms and pinned in place by his mouth. Stiles is suddenly so hard he can barely stand, barely breathe; he's gasping through his nose and moaning around Derek's tongue, soft and needy.

Something brushes by him and it's darker behind his eyelids; it's not until Derek breaks away from Stiles' mouth and snarls that he opens his eyes to find they've been wrapped in shadow. Derek spins him around again, then claps his hands on Stiles' shoulders.

"Uh-oh…" Derek says, and Stiles really wants to turn around and see his ohshit face, but he can't because he can dimly make out his dad barreling toward them over the dance floor. He looks frantic and supremely irritated at the same time. Stiles hears a brief spritzing noise behind him and the shadows dissolve. His father frowns, looking up at the disco ball, but it's forgotten in the next breath.

"Once again I get a call and find you at the center of a police matter," he says, his eyes flicking to Derek in an unreadable way that Stiles is choosing to interpret as a good sign and Derek isn't, judging by the absolute stillness behind him and the tight grip on Stiles' shoulders.

"Dad, it's a coincidence! It's just a dance! A _charity_ dance! A _date_ at a charity dance! How could you possibly interpret that to mean--"

"Stiles, if you actually had a date for this thing, you would have been talking about it non-stop for days. Also, you're not gay. I thought we covered that!"

Stiles feels like sinking through the floor. "Gee, thanks Dad."

His dad stares at him with the Stilinski Eyebrow and Stiles knows he's doomed.

"Fine, you got me. It's not really a date."

"It's really not, sir," says Derek, behind Stiles' left ear, sounding so earnest Stiles is tempted to turn around in his arms and look at his face.

"But I'm sticking with my previous story. I could be gay," says Stiles, and ohboy was that the biggest understatement of the year, apparently.

His dad gives him an appraising look. A re-appraising look.

"I suppose that assumption deserves revisiting. At any rate, we're going to have a word about inappropriate public displays of affection, Stiles." This time he full-on glares at Derek.

Derek takes a deep breath and Stiles just knows he's going to blow it for them, so he kicks his heel back into Derek's shin. His dad is at the wind-down stage of his rant, and there is _no way_ he's going to blow this one. Like-- Styles surreptitiously looks around, then really looks around. "Derek, where are the fairies?"

"Oh, Stiles," says his dad. "I thought I taught you better than that. Name calling?"

And that just does it. On top of everything, on top of the constant lies and secrecy and his father's completely valid disappointment in Stiles, all of which is crushing enough, to cause his father disappointment by something completely unintentional and _not meaning what his dad thinks it means_ is just too much. His dad's turning around to go back to the huddle of people outside the gym door, looking more upset than Stiles has seen him since his mother died, and Stiles makes a choice. "Dad, wait!"

His dad turns halfway back around.

"It's not what it seems! There were -- uh, look. I promise you there's a good explanation. And I _will_ tell you. Soon!" He tries his best not to look like a guilty liar who lies, but isn't sure he's successful.

"We'll talk about it later, Stiles," says his dad, and he turns back around and walks away.

Stiles heaves a big sigh of relief and that's all the time he takes right then to process the bare bones of the conversation he's going to have to have with this dad in the near future. _Very_ near future, because Thanksgiving is on Thursday, and through a concatenation of crazy circumstance that Stiles still doesn't want to think too much about, the entire pack is invited to dinner. But before that happens, he needs to talk to Derek, and maybe the rest of the pack.

"Come on, let's go," he says to Derek. They make their way out the back door and find the rest of the pack by the cars. No one says anything, and they do it very loudly, without looking at them.

"So, yeah, we lost them," said Erica, because she's ruthlessly cutting like that. She elbows Stiles in the ribs and makes him wheeze. "Not dating, my ass!"

"I thought Lydia said we weren't supposed to have dates at the dance?" says Isaac, all innocent-babe-in-the-woods. "She's going to be so mad at you, Derek." Correction: _evil_ innocent-babe-in-the-woods.

"We are not dating!" And really, did they secretly rehearse saying this in unison and Stiles forget? Stiles looks at Derek with a particularly virulent stab of resentment, but it melts away the moment he sees Derek's bottom lip in his teeth and conflict written all over his face. Stiles bites his tongue and says nothing else.

::-----------------------------------------------------------------::

"OK, remind me again. How did we get stuck with Thanksgiving grocery shopping? I thought we had a fairy crisis to resolve," says Stiles. And yeah, that was probably a little too loud, judging by the dirty side-eyes he's getting. He looks around Beacon Hills Bel Air and doesn't remember ever seeing it so crowded.

Derek's wearing his best sourwolf pissy-face like it was featured in Vogue or GQ or something and he was on a mission to make it his own, and doesn't deign to do anything other than overpower the grocery cart. The handle creaks and Stiles raises an eyebrow at him when he doesn't say anything back.

"…Because not answering means good communication skills in a relationship," Stiles eventually says, rolling his eyes, and aha, _that's_ getting a response.

"We are not in a relationship!" Derek roars. People stop side-eyeing them and start moving out of the dairy aisle at speed.

"Bonus!" says Stiles, as a space magically opens in front of the butter. He swoops in and scoops up two pounds, and beams at Derek because passive-agressively pissing off your Alpha in public is totally his new thing. "So... what are we, then?" Stiles asks, and he really, really wants to know because there is no way in heaven or hell or on earth that any one will ever provoke a response out of Stiles the way Derek does with his kisses. He thinks he might be able to come just from Derek's kisses, and is beginning to be pretty damned resentful he hasn't had the chance to experiment long enough to find out.

"We're pack."

Oh.

Well, that stings. Last weekend being pack made him all smiley inside. But now -- now, it just hurts. Stiles is pretty sure he understands why, and it makes him unhappy because he's not sure he can fix it. He's not sure he even _wants_ to, except for the tiny, secret part of himself that he's not paying attention to thank you very much that wants to do more than fix it -- wants to build it back up from scratch with gold bricks and make it a lasting, shiny monument.

"What, so you go around kissing Isaac and Boyd and Erica like that?" Stiles ambles around the corner into produce and dumps a ten pound bag of potatoes into the cart. He swallows, and swallows again.

"No! God, Stiles!" He listens to Derek take a deep breath and then another. "Look, I don't go around kissing my pack. I don't go around kissing _anyone_ , really, and I have no idea why I keep kissing _you_ , other than it's cover."

Stiles wants to sink into the highly-polished Bel Air tiles. The lump in his throat metastasises to his chest and rests there like a heavy weight.

"But…" Derek takes another breath, a deep one. The tiniest bare hint of a smile ghosts across his face. "I do want to keep doing it. Kissing you."

_Hallelujah!_ The weight lifts and the lump resolves. Stiles glances at his feet because there's just no way they're still attached to the floor. He also grins like an idiot, and he doesn't want Derek to see because he might just change his mind. No one wants to kiss a maniac.

They don't say anything more until they're at the fresh turkeys: the last stop on their highly successful Bel Air tour. "Crap. We should have got the turkey on Monday so we could get a frozen one. Fresh ones are too expensive."

"I'll buy it," says Derek, and he's sounding so mild that Stiles really believes he isn't bothered at all to offer.

"Really? That might actually be a nice 'in' with my dad," says Stiles.

"I'm happy to," says Derek. "Anything to cushion the blow."

"So you really think we should tell him?"

"You hate lying to him, don't you?"

That's at least the second-biggest understatement of the year, possibly the biggest. "Yeah. Yeah, I do," says Stiles. "I just want to come clean. We have enough stress in our lives. And he'll be a good ally to the pack. If he takes it well, that is."

Derek makes a show of picking through turkeys as he says, "Then you'll come clean. I'll be there to back you up. The whole pack will."

Stiles sneaks a glance at Derek and his face is just as red as Stiles thinks his own must be.

He sidles in close and nudges Derek with his shoulder. "This is starting to feel like a date," he says. "A nice, domestic date."

"It's not," says Derek, "but we should go on one. Soon."

Stiles grins all the way home.

The rest of the pack meets up with him at his house and helps put the groceries away and do prep work. Stiles is dicing onions and celery with Scott when Scott says, "Dude, you're looking all… fond. It's creepy."

"Derek says shopping is not a date activity."

"I knew something was up with you two!" says Erica, practically purring.

"Excuse me? Shopping is totally a date activity!" says Lydia.

"Allison, back me up, here," says Stiles.

"Sorry, Stiles," she says, wincing. "Shopping really is a date activity."

"Wait, what?" says Scott. "Shopping? I've never…" He looks at Allison, who's very carefully keeping her eyes on the graham crackers under her rolling pin. "Oh."

"Yeah, but grocery shopping?" says Stiles.

"They say the way to a man's heart—" Scott starts.

"Don't finish that sentence. Traitor," says Stiles.

Jackson snorts. Boyd rolls his eyes. Isaac bops along to whatever's blasting in his earphones. Derek sighs and zests another lemon, but he smiles when Stiles elbows him in the ribs. Gently, of course.

::-----------------------------------------------------------------::

"So I guess this means creepy fairies don't celebrate Thanksgiving," says Stiles. It's crap frosting on the really rather awesome cake that his Wednesday's turned out to be. His dad didn't dive as deep into the bottle of whiskey as Stiles had kinda resigned himself to dealing with, when they sat down to tell him all about werewolves and creepy fairies and kanimas and other things that go bump in the night. He didn't even object when Stiles declared he was going out with Derek and wouldn't be home for dinner. Probably wouldn't be home all night, in fact.

"You're eighteen, and he's -- well, you're eighteen. Just -- be safe," his dad gets out, and releases an explosive breath. "Enjoy yourself."

And Stiles fully intends to, until they get out of town on their way to the warehouse and they catch scent of the fairies, this time headed for Beacon Hills Retirement Resort. Derek squeals a donut in the middle of Main Street and Stiles texts the rest of the pack. _Be there as soon as you can._

Soon isn't soon enough; Stiles gets pretty well scraped up by fairy claws simply filthy with magic, and Derek has to spray him three times to get the immediate festering infections to go away. The slices and scrapes remain, though they're shallow. What's really bothering him is his ankle. He twisted it trying to get away from a flock of them, and -- yeah, fine, might as well laugh about it now since he probably will twenty years from now -- Derek's _carrying him_. Hell, he might as well laugh now, anyway, because despite his injuries, all is well. The creepy fairies have been routed out of Beacon Hills.

"Where are we going, anyway?" he asks, after Derek's been hauling him through the woods for about ten minutes. "Aren't we meeting up with the others?"

"They're going to set up a perimeter around the Hale property and keep watch, in case they try to come back. But I'm pretty sure they're gone for good."

"Where are we going, then?"

"Up high. Fairies like to stay close to the ground, and you need rest. I don't want to chance it."

Stiles is too tired to argue with that, but, "...Derek, I can't really walk anywhere. How'm I supposed to climb?"

Derek just smirks, and hoists Stiles a little higher on his back.

::-----------------------------------------------------------------::

"Oh my GOD I'm going to die!" Stiles moans, and looks down over his shoulder. He can't see the ground. "How high up are we?"

"About fifty feet," says Derek. "Only about fifteen more to go."

"And you couldn't have, oh, I don't know, _installed a rope ladder_ or something? Do you mean to tell me you _climb up here_ every time you come?"

Derek glances back at him for a moment and continues climbing. "Yeah, I do."

"Show off," says Stiles, though it does make sense. Derek's not even breathing hard, and he's got all of Stiles' weight on his back. Stiles insists it's a testament to werewolf strength. He refuses to believe it's because he's scrawny. He's got muscles! And a budding four-pack! Never mind Scott and his 'excess skin' theory. He's just being a jerk. Stiles knows he's hard in all the right places. Which-- ohgod, he's _not_ going there now. Not with his dick smashed against Derek's spine like it is. Derek does not need a distraction poking him in the back. Not when there's nothing separating Stiles from an overly-hasty introduction to the ground aside from sixty feet and two hands. He shuts his eyes and gulps, and holds on for dear life.

In half a minute, his worst fears come true and he can feel himself tipping, tipping back and to the side, though he's glommed on to Derek's back like a barnacle, and there's a lake down there he didn't see over Derek's shoulder, and _holy shit_ they're, like, six storeys high! And great -- Derek's lost his hold and now they're _both_ going to die, except Derek twists a bit to the side and before he knows it, Stiles is bouncing on his side in a net, scared wienerless that the shaking is going to make the net fall, but strangely comforted by the sight of a pile of sleeping bags slumped way over in the middle of the net. Which is really like a giant hammock, he thinks, when he finally opens his eyes all the way after not-dying. A California King hammock. Actually, this thing could probably have its own zip code, it's so huge. Stiles drags himself along to the sleeping bags and lays down on top of one. Derek scoots onto the one next to him, then opens another couple of them and pulls them over top of them both.

"We'll be warmer this way," says Derek, and Stiles is too tired and beat up to argue. And once they're settled in, Stiles on his back, nestled in Derek's armpit, all his muscles gently throbbing, he doesn't ever want to move again. For the first time since they left Stiles' house tonight, he's warm and comfortable, despite the chill in the air, and before he realizes it, he's fallen asleep.

He wakes a couple hours later feeling much more himself, and deliciously warm all over. He hasn't moved except to turn on his side and snuggle in closer to the furnace that is Derek.

"Hey," says Derek. Stiles opens his eyes; Derek's looking at the stars.

"Hey," says Stiles. He turns and looks up at the sky, too. The constellations are cool white dots in the blackness. 

"This is more like a date than shopping," says Derek, turning on his side and running his hand up under the front of Stiles' Henley.

Stiles turns his head and his lips are a couple inches away from Derek's mouth. "No way, dude."

"What?" Derek's smirking again. "Why not?"

"It's not a date unless you spend money."

"Well, then what is it when you don't spend any money but you're together?"

"It's hanging out."

"Oh. Not a date, then," says Derek, and it's obvious he's enjoying this a little too much. "So does that mean we can't ki-mmph--"

"Shut up," says Stiles, against Derek's lips. Stiles pushes Derek's mouth open with his tongue and Derek gasps, then sucks Stile's tongue in deeper.

It's like a conduit to his cock. Stiles' awareness of the world, of the frost in the air, the dim starlight, there at the prickly tops of the trees, the dark reflections on the surface of the lake all fade away to the edges until he's aware of nothing more than Derek, Derek's heat, Derek's hands and his mouth, pulling soft cries from his lips as Derek bites them and sucks them, as Derek's lips steal his tongue and tug at it, teasing, inviting the rest of Stiles to come along with it.

Stiles rolls his hips into Derek's thigh and his own thigh slips between Derek's legs. The rope net creaks and sways as they thrust against one another, punctuated by soft moans and gasps, and it isn't long before the hot brands of Derek's hands scoop around Stiles' ass and tugs him in _hard_ and holds him, holds him so tight against Derek's hardness as he chokes out, "Stiles!"

Stiles hears surprise, and astonishment, and wonder, and sweet bliss in his name, and as he feels Derek's warmth and wetness seep into his trousers on his thigh, he lets that desperate cry pull him over the edge and he thrusts out his own release, gasping Derek's name into his mouth.

::-----------------------------------------------------------------::

Stiles can't remember the last time he had as much fun, or as much to eat, at Thanksgiving. The pack cooks, dad makes his mother's pumpkin pie and it comes out perfect, and Stiles' turkey is all crispy skin and tender meat. Which is why they're all sprawled in front of the television now, watching the 49ers beat the pants off the Lions.

"Ugh. I can't believe it's snowing in Detroit," says Lydia.

"I can," says Isaac. "My aunt Mary lived there until she died and we used to go there when my mom was still alive. It snowed twice on Thanksgiving there when I was a kid."

"I'm glad we live in California, then. At least the weather's not ridiculous."

"I second that," said Allison. "It's cold enough as it is, right here." Scott takes the hint and pulls the throw from the back of the couch and tucks it around them both.

Stiles thinks of stars and crisp night air, of raw openness and soft murmured secrets in the hazy aftermath, and looks at Derek. He's wearing a faint, secret smile and Stiles answers it. "I'm glad to be here, too," he says.

"I'll just bet," says Jackson.

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Fuck off, Jackson."

Boyd rolls his eyes and Erica snorts.

"You really smell like each other," says Isaac.

"Ugh! I did _not_ want to hear that!" says Stiles' dad.

"At least you're not sitting on the couch with them," says Lydia.

"Come sit up here with me, Lydia," says Jackson, and pats the arm of the love seat.

"But they do, though. So, does this mean Stiles is going to be Den Mother?"

"We're werewolves, Isaac, not boy scouts," says Boyd, rolling his eyes.

"No, but really, are you guys going out now?" asks Allison, and there's nothing there but gentle curiosity.

Everyone looks at them, waiting. Stiles looks at Derek, wondering if he'll say it first. Wondering _what_ he'll say. He waits, then decides to say, even though they haven't actually gone one one yet, "Yeah, we're dating."

He's not surprised at all that Derek's saying it right along with him.


End file.
